


Hoop Diddy Doo

by quixoticquest



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Brian, Brian overthinks everything, Crossdressing, Don't @ Me, Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, I want to break free, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Roger is annoying, Semi-Public Sex, They're men in the 80s and they're not super progressive thinking, Top Roger, Top Rogerina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 18:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17647883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixoticquest/pseuds/quixoticquest
Summary: “You’re telling me, you wouldn’t let a beautiful woman shag you?” Roger goes on. “Just once? To see what it was like.”Brian doesn’t want to give Roger the satisfaction of hesitating, so he opens his mouth just as his mind provides him an intelligent statement. “I suppose I would consider it, if it was the right beautiful woman. I would be very adamant about doing it properly, maintain my right to back out at any point. But I wouldn’t say, 'no and that’s final'.” Any way he could say yes without actually saying yes was good enough for Brian.“That’s very feminist of you,” Roger snickers. “Maybe then there’s some hope for me.”---Shenanigans after hours on the set of the "I Want to Break Free" music video.





	Hoop Diddy Doo

**Author's Note:**

> You guys are severely lacking in Top!Rogerina. I had to take matters into my own hands. This is me feeding you good food here. Soup's on.
> 
> This is my first smut in a long time, so I'm a little rusty and I'm sorry if it shows. Also super sorry if the British stuff is awkward, I'm a stupid American. Either way, please enjoy, and thanks for checking this out.

Roger insists on a cigarette after sex, like most people at mercy of the nasty habit. He’ll march his bare ass across the room to get the carton out of his jacket if there aren’t any on the bedside stand, if he’s feeling spry enough.

The only reason Brian knows this is because he’s the one he’s having sex with.

“How come I’m always getting fucked?” Roger demands, hunched and half-naked at the window, because ever since Brian found out about his post-coital habit he’s insisted Roger smoke out the window, or not at all. Brian would have prefered the latter, but one only need be around three quarters of Queen for fifteen years to realize these inclinations picked and chose when to reveal themselves at their own leisure.

“What are you talking about?” Brian asks from the comfort of his own bed, adequately bundled against the evening chill that has Roger’s soft, pale body pebbling with gooseflesh, and mouth scrunched into a frown every time he turns around. “I’ve gone to great lengths to make sure this is all very mutually satisfying.” Otherwise they’d be shagging other women, and not calling upon each other once or twice a week in this dirge between recording and touring. 

“I mean  _ literally _ , Brian. I know I’m a good lay but a man has needs.”

Brian doesn’t know whether to agree or prod for an explanation (his brain isn’t exactly operating at a hundred percent after orgasm). All he knows is he’s not in the mood to fuel Roger’s ego.

Roger flicks the crumbling butt of his cigarette into the dark night, and shuts the window to dive back into the body-warm bed. Brian isn’t very inclined to give up the covers with Roger’s chilled shoulders butting up against him. 

“I’d like to top sometime, Bri,” Roger says plain and simple, when he’s stolen enough of the duvet to suffice.

Brian, at this point, is used to Roger wanting to try different things, and used to turning most of them down. This is a little different though. “Why?” Brian utters incredulously, almost dumbly, and perhaps defensively. They’ve got a good thing going. Why switch it up if it already works?

“Why not?” Roger counters. “Give my ass a break for one thing. And I don’t like routine very much. This is all a bit vanilla, isn’t it?”

“So I’ve heard.” Roger really loves to throw that word around when he thinks Brian is being particularly boring in bed. Brian doesn’t really know what the problem is. Vanilla is sweet, subtle, and everlasting.

“I don’t really know if I’d like doing it the other way around, Rog,” he says, folding his hands on the plush duvet in front of him.

“You’ve never tried it!”

“Oh, and you have until now?”

This time, a lopsided grin splits onto Roger’s face and he tilts his head, looking a bit too smug. “That’s how I know I like it, baby.”

Brian, who’s almost absolutely certain Roger’s only ever been with women outside their own arrangement, can feel his face contorting in some combination of shock and confusion. It probably isn’t very forward thinking of him.

“Haven’t you ever heard of pegging?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s when a girl fucks you in the ass with a dildo.”

“Roger, please!”

“There’s no room for modesty here! We were fucking ourselves not even ten minutes ago! God.” Roger goes for his cigarettes again, only to remember Brian’s rule, and the cold. He resorts to crossing his arms rather petulantly.

Meanwhile, Brian tries to focus on something that isn’t the mental image of Roger getting speared within an inch of his life on some leather clad woman’s strap-on (if only because he’s surprised by the stirring of his spent cock, and not interested in a second round when he’s needed bright and early for some function or another tomorrow morning).

“You’re telling me, you wouldn’t let a beautiful woman shag you?” Roger goes on. “Just once? To see what it was like.”

Brian doesn’t want to give Roger the satisfaction of hesitating, so he opens his mouth just as his mind provides him an intelligent statement. “I suppose I would consider it, if it was the right beautiful woman. I would be very adamant about doing it properly, maintain my right to back out at any point. But I wouldn’t say,  _ no and that’s final _ .” Any way he could say yes without actually saying yes was good enough for Brian.

“That’s very feminist of you,” Roger snickers. “Maybe then there’s some hope for me.”

“I’ll try to think about it,” Brian lies, knowing he’s bound to push the idea to the furthest of his priorities. “But if you decide to bother me about it then the answer will always be no.” He feels a bit like his mum adding that last bit.

“Oh, alright.” Roger seems settled with the issue, and flops onto his side. This is usually the part where he slips out of bed to collect his clothes and bid Brian goodnight, but instead he tucks the duvet around his chin and shifts his face into the pillow. Brian watches him for a long while, dumbfounded.

“If you’re not gonna be up much longer, could you turn off the lamp?” Roger asks after a moment.

Sighing gravely, Brian obliges, bathing his bedroom in darkness, and settles in to get to sleep. He supposes blanket hog Roger and his icy toes aren’t the worst thing in the world to happen to him.

***

After several hours of takes and shots and film jargon that was all still very strange business to Brian, even with dozens of music videos under his belt, John’s song has become the worst sort of ear worm. It’s nagging at his brain and Brian can’t even stand the sound of his own guitar interlude anymore. The only saving grace for these sorts of things is how fun they often turned out to be, and watching his bandmates parade around in drag was no exception.

The last curler is finally out of his hair and his scalp is suffering sorely for it. He’s back in his own clothes, trying to find out whether John’s mink scarf was real or not while they make plans for dinner and review the filming schedule for tomorrow - Freddie’s ballet thing, which Brian is still on the fence about, but try telling that to Fred and all the heavily rehearsed dancers - when Roger pulls him back, seeming to have come from nowhere.

Most notably, he’s still in full schoolgirl geddup, save a button or two undone at his collar with his tie loose.

“I need your help,” he tells Brian,  _ sounding _ serious even if it’s hard to take him at all seriously with bows in his yellow hair and purple shimmery stuff caked across those big blue eyes. “I lost something, I think I dropped it on set. Could you give me a hand looking for it?”

“Oh, sure,” Brian offers, fancying himself the helpful sort anyway. He’s hungry but he imagines it can’t be hard to scope out half a living room and kitchen.

The soundstage is, now, completely empty, and the only lights are coming from overhead, serving more function than any style associated with filming. The set is just as they left it, and in no time Roger is peeking over, under, and around the couch, the table, and the chairs.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Brian asks, giving a humble once-over of the living room set in case anything unordinary pops out at him.

“You’ll know it when you see it.” Roger drops to his knees with an unsavory grunt that gives away his age and sex.

But as he gets on his hands to look under the couch, ass in the air only mostly covered by his black pleated skirt, with his stocking-clad legs spread for balance, well, he could fool anybody.

Brian is a simple man. It’s not like he was  _ just  _ noticing what a nice lady Roger made when he committed to the part; they’d been at it all day. Tapping his loafer to the beat of John’s song while he did the dishes, or chewing gum while he did his homework (as if any of that had been real). And when those pretty little lips started swearing during a botched take, Brian was made painfully aware of just how flimsy and tight his own nightie could be.

These were costumes for a music video, though, and had to be given back to certain professionals. Brian hardly expected to be left alone with Roger like this - but now that he had, he didn’t see the harm in putting a little more good use to an outfit that probably wouldn’t see the light of day again.

“You look very cute like that,” Brian says boldy, slacking in his search to sit on the couch, watching Roger’s goldilocks hair bounce as he tilts back on his haunches. “Makes a poor boy think naughty thoughts.” 

Roger, thankfully, seems into it, smiling until his teeth are showing, pink gloss still slathered across his lips. “Oh yeah? Like what? Shall I get some wicked old nun to spank you?”

Turns out, Brian isn’t very good at dirty talk - but he knew that already. He’s  _ vanilla _ after all, as Roger keeps reminding him. Not to mention, he’s not sure he wants to run with this underage schoolgirl bit (seems a bit wrong, and he doesn’t much like nuns), and is mostly just concerned with the fact that Roger is dressed like a woman at all.

So instead of playing along to the game he started all on his own, Brian does his best and goes, “Why don’t I show you while we have the space to ourselves,” thinking himself rather clever. Especially when Roger lights up. 

Semi-public fornication with an element of cross-dressing. Maybe now he’d think Brian is worth his salt.

Roger springs up from the floor and saunters around the couch, almost sashaying. Brian’s trying very hard to keep his body in its solid state of matter as Roger drapes herself - er, himself, if the prominent package held at bay by his stockings is anything to go by - across his long body like Deaky wasn’t sitting there with a newspaper an hour ago.

It’s as if Brian can feel every atom of his being vibrate as Roger’s eyes turn dark under the shadow of his fringe, looming closer and closer until Brian is almost positive he’s about to find out what that lip gloss tastes like.

“You know what?” Roger murmurs in as low a register as he’s able, which might have been silly with the outfit he’s sporting, except Brian’s genitals are taking it  _ very _ seriously.

“What?” he asks, struggling to keep his own voice at a normal decibel.

“I think I’d rather show you what  _ I’m  _ thinking.”

“Oh yeah? What would that be, pretty lady?”

“ _ I  _ think,” Roger whispers as the slippery nylon of his stockings slides on either side of Brian’s jeans, “I’d like to get your legs spread and fuck you into the upholstery.”

“Yeah?” Brian wheezes as his prick takes special notice - only for his brain to scrabble some sense together in time for realization to settle in.

“Wait, what-”

Brian doesn’t get an answer, instead Roger crushes their lips together, plastering Brian to the cushions and armrest. He wastes no time getting his tongue involved, all but prying Brian’s mouth open to delve inside. The lip gloss is waxy as they bump together, slightly fruity, and Brian feels the residue on his chin when Roger overshoots it a little, but he can’t really blame Roger since he’s already bucking his hips like a horny dog pressed underneath the pleated skirt.

Only Brian remembers what Roger said just seconds ago, and tries to tilt his head back so he can ask for some clarification. His voice doesn’t come right away though, so Roger takes that opportunity to get his face buried against Brian’s neck, teeth scraping as he laves at his pulse point. He shoves his hands into Brian’s hair and if the poor guitarist wasn’t goo before, he certainly is now.

Brian has just enough sense to curse himself for letting Roger in on all the buttons to push to get him rightly hot and bothered.

At this point (and to think they’ve only just begun!) he’s trying desperately not to melt into the couch, tensing as Roger rocks his hips into his with grating, languid movement. He’s got both hands latched around thickets of dark curls and uses his grip to get Brian’s chin pointed toward the dizzying yellow lights overhead so he can suck obscene marks into his throat - leaving iridescent pink prints in his wake, no doubt. Any thoughts about spread legs and upholstery are just about flung from Brian’s mind, and he devotes his attention to the texture of nylon spread across Roger’s ass under his skirt, and gives a firm, appreciative squeeze.

Brian becomes vaguely aware that one hand has released him and surged into the space between couch cushions, but doesn’t think much of it as Roger worries at his clavicle, grinding heavily between Brian’s knees. He’s taking his good old time, for once. Too bad Brian doesn’t realize the ruse until it’s too late.

“Ah! Found it!” Roger pops away, leaving cool damp skin in his wake, along with a dazed Brian. He’s absolutely throttled to see the lip gloss has worked itself past the edges of Roger’s lips, and smeared toward his cupid’s bow. He holds aloft an unseemly bottle and a square foil package for Brian’s inspection.

“Prophylactics,” Brian proclaims, intelligent as ever.

“You’re right! You’re so eager to dick me down, you’d think _you’d_ have remembered them. Well, mister, I do think it’s my turn now.”

Roger is pleased as can be, but it takes Brian a minute to work through a whole thought a little longer, in his haze of arousal. Roger isn’t supposed to be more objective than him. 

“Wait, that’s what you’re on about?” Brian demands when the light bulb flickers on, voice rising angrily. He pushes himself up on the heels of his hands. “What did I fucking tell you, Roger?!”

“You told me not to bother you about it, and I haven’t,” Roger retorts, planting his hands on his hips with a femininity that comes a bit too naturally in this costume. “You told me you would let a beautiful woman fuck you within certain parameters. I am perfectly capable of meeting those parameters.”

“You are not a beautiful woman!” Brian exclaims.

Roger has the audacity to look offended. “That’s not what  _ I  _ heard, Mister  _ You look very cute, pretty lady _ .”

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” Brian’s covered his eyes with his hands, grumbling through gritted teeth - annoyed more than anything, perhaps, that his raging erection has not suffered once since the grand realization. “Don’t tell me you orchestrated the whole fucking music video for this reason!”

“It may or may not have been a driving force, yes,” Roger admits airily, “but come on, we had great fun, didn’t we? I think a good laugh is plenty exchange for a quick poke up the ass.”

Quick he says! “It’s really not.”

“Oh Bri, do I really need exchange at all?” Roger sighs, and before Brian can really think to stop him, reaches down to grope him through his trousers. He’s noticed the one thing Brian was very much hoping would just go away, and with the drummer’s stalwart hand clenched around his bits, driving his pulse higher and hotter and red in his cheeks, there’s no calming down anytime soon.

“Seems like you just hate the principle of the thing.”

“I think that’s entirely fair.”

“Well then, how’s this for fair.” Roger withdraws, and crosses his arms. “Right from the get go, when we started with all this business, you expected me to get down and receive, and I always do, and never complained about anything, ever, not once. Not even when you fall asleep right after.”

Brian’s resorted to pouting, and puffing out a huff, eyes averted to avoid Roger’s gaze.

“ _ I  _ think it would be  _ entirely fair _ if you tried the receiving end just once.”

“There were several ways to say that without resorting to cross-dressing,” Brian mentions.

Roger fluffs his wig. “Well where’s the fun in that?”

Brian doesn’t respond for a moment. He hates when Roger is right, and he hates even more that this is one of the things he has to be right about. Neither of them are very experienced when it comes to male bedfellows; Brian’s simply  _ used _ to and enjoys inserting because that’s the default for the women he’s been with. 

Is that an excuse? He’s not sure. But Roger’s already worked himself to sitting between Brian’s legs, one pressed up against the back of the couch and the other bent against the floor. He’s had this planned for how long, god knows - ha!

There’s also the thought that, if Brian refuses, he’s sure they’re not going to sleep together again. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, or even the band - theirs is a casual arrangement.

But a small voice in the back of his head that he’s been inclined to ignore tells him what a pity that would be.

So at long last, he sighs, tips his head back so he doesn’t have to look at Roger, and says, “Can I have a safe word or something?”

Roger cackles, chin thrown skyward in triumph. “A safe word for a dick up your ass! You really are vanilla.”

He must have gathered how close Brian was to taking it all back, so he amends with a rushed, “Fine fine fine, that’s alright. How about - ehrm…” Roger looks around the half-living room and the industrial soundstage beyond, apparently waiting for some suitable word to creep out from the shadows.

“How about ‘knickers’, then?”

“I can’t imagine a reason I’d shout it out otherwise,” Brian admits, which he figures is good criteria for a safe word.

“Then it’s a good thing I didn’t let Fred convince me to trade my briefs for ‘em.” 

Before Brian can ask if he’s joking, Roger is upon him, hands on Brian’s chest to push himself down and forward until they’re kissing again. Brian tries to lose himself in the sensation of Roger’s slick mouth, of his warm body settled heavily on top of his, because he’s thinking too hard - as usual. 

But there’s no way  _ not _ to think as he feels Roger’s hands slip across the front of his shirt, down toward the hem overlapping the zip of his trousers. He’s let Roger pluck him open with deft, knobby fingers time and time again without ever stressing it; he’s been titillated, even. But now Brian can’t help being a little nervous knowing Roger means to have access to his asshole. 

And yet, he lifts his hips when asked, as Roger rakes down his fly and shoves the denim flaps down and away from his pelvis. It’s as familiar as any routine, and Brian tries to let himself enjoy the part that he’s used to.

Roger lifts away again, and suddenly Brian is presented with that wholly feminine visage once more. Tousled yellow curls cascading past his shoulders, and makeup smudged from all those heady kisses. If he lets his eyes cross (easier than not with Roger working him out of his underwear), it’s entirely convincing. All except for the tantalizing apex between Roger’s legs where his skirt is riding up, and his dick is doing its damnedest to peek through a layer of cotton and nylon.

“There we are,” Roger hums once he’s stripped Brian down enough for access and mobility, balancing his hand against the couch to curl his fingers around the taut shaft of Brian’s cock. “You ought to step in line with your prick and get a little more excited.”

Brian thinks he could say something clever, but Roger’s tightened his fist and he’s determined not to moan, even as that gut-deep heat builds up behind his teeth. Brian tells himself his silence is incase anyone’s lingered beyond the soundstage.

“Got to work you open,” Roger drawls out as he strokes Brian’s cock with a slow flick of the wrist. “You’ve never done it before though, have you? Would you like to take a whack at it or should I?”

Truthfully, Brian doesn’t want whacking anywhere near his ass, but indulges the idiom all the same. It takes quite a bit of conviction, and focus away from the sweet ebbing warmth suffusing through him with every twist of Roger’s hand, to offer a logical answer.

“Well you’ve done it more than I have,” Brian huffs, just a touch strained. Sure he’s prepped Roger before but Roger knows how it’s supposed to feel. He’s done it to himself, other women potentially. And Brian is stupidly comforted by the fact that Roger’s hands are just a touch smaller than his.

“What an honor,” Roger gushes. He shifts back on the lumpy cushions and retrieves the bottle that had been forgotten in the wake of more touchy feely priorities. This means releasing Brian’s dick, fortunately (though he was sort of hoping he might spend himself by some strange turn of events so this whole ordeal could come to an end). 

Roger plants his palms on both Brian’s bare knees. “You’ll have to spread a bit.” He pushes Brian back as much as one can do comfortably on the couch, which is feeling rather tiny for the gangly guitarist in the wake of all this stress on his body. With his thighs nearly touching his stomach on both sides, there is a slight burn in the muscles, from lack of flexibility no doubt, and a breeze where Brian’s sure he’s never felt a breeze before. He stares at Roger between the vee of his legs with his heart knocking around in his ribcage, feeling as if he’s about to have an operation done.

A very invasive one.

“I know I’ve been persistent but do speak up if it hurts.” Roger flips open the cap on the bottle with his thumb and squeezes a liberal glob of shiny, viscous liquid into his palm. “It’s a little weird the first time. And if it’s really bad you’ve got the K-word.”

That smidge of advice, coming from Roger, is just enough comfort for Brian to relax the tense line of his back. At least he has an appropriate sense of consideration, even if he can be a real twat other times.

“Alright,” Brian agrees, trying not to sound wary as Roger bows over him, one hand on his cocked thigh. The other, Brian isn’t really thinking about, until it makes his presence known between his ass cheeks, slick and prodding.

He’s back to tensing his spine, a knee-jerk reaction to the foreign object butting too close for comfort up to that tight ring of muscles. Brian tries to tell his brain that the object isn’t foreign at all, it’s a finger, but that might be doing the opposite of helping him mellow out.

“Hey, ease up,” Roger urges, looking rather cross under all his pink and purple shimmer. “It’s gonna be harder if you lock up on me.”

Brian does his very best to relax, starting in his shoulders, letting the sensation sink down into his back. It’s not complete, or bound to last, but at least he’s not cramping up before they’ve already begun. 

“Relax,” Roger coos, and Brian has half a mind to suspect he’s being talked down to - but by then, Roger’s pushed forward a little more, and all he can suspect about anything is the finger brushing up against his asshole.

Brian channels all the tightness bound for his limbs into the clench of his jaw and neck, and it’s just enough for Roger to breach just a few centimeters. Brian’s teeth grind together and his blunt fingernails scrape at the upholstery, and he can’t believe he’s already  _ squirming. _

“How’s that?” Roger asks attentively, pausing with his middle finger not even halfway up Brian’s asshole. “How’s that feel?”

Brian does his very best to relax his face. “Weird,” he pronounces, remembering what Roger said just seconds ago. 

“Told you.” Without any warning (not that Brian is so ridiculous that he  _ needs _ it), Roger slides his finger deeper past clenched walls. It takes some real gumption for Brian not to crawl back and away, and he manages to stay still for as long as it takes Roger to work his digit around, easing into the space.

“God, is this how it feels for you every time?” Brian demands as his lips twist up into an unconfident grimace.

“You just have to get used to it,” Roger says. Brian flicks up to lock his gaze, and he’s met with a dopey, smarmy smile. Customary for Roger, but looking pretty silly gracing the face of this brazen lady he’s become.

“How’s it starting to feel now?”

“Not...bad.” 

“Not bad means good!”

Roger continues to work his middle finger into Brian’s ass, slightly circular back and forth motions, emphasized by the slide of the lubricant. By and by, Brian grows used to it, even if he can never really stop agonizing over the fact that it’s there.

He thinks maybe he’s finally owning the whole thing, but then Roger adds his forefinger.

“Jesus!” Brian swears, tilting his head back, confounded by the difference a single digit makes. 

Roger clucks at him. “Easy now.” Brian can’t decide if he’s being patronizing or not, but it’s not exactly his main focus, with Roger making actual, tangible progress at working him open.

Before long, but not before Brian has gone through the five stages of grief all over again, Roger adds the third, his ring finger, to the mix. He’s got them cinched together, pistoning in slow, careful movements past the tension of Brian’s ass. Brian feels his core clench with every thrust. He also feels his very own muscles stretching to accommodate the thick breach, the burn of tension easing away the longer it goes on. It’s enough for him to have grown some semblance of calm, teeth pressed together as he breathes in and out through his nose. He feels rather useless, as his cock stands at full attention in his peripherals. But Brian isn’t about to wank himself at  _ this  _ particular stage, and Roger’s member, if present, is hidden and secure behind three layers, including the flap of his skirt.

Just when the discomfort-turned-just-odd sensation is beginning to bend toward something slightly headier that Brian’s body is just beginning to comprehend, Roger withdraws unceremoniously. Brian gasps, fluttering around the empty cool left in the wake of those fingers.

“You didn’t think that was it, did you?” Roger goes to wipe his sodden hand on the front of his skirt, except he seems to remember it’s not his own and has no desire to explain where the stain came from. He hesitates over the couch as well, and finally, with a put-upon sigh, rakes his fingers down the front of Brian’s shirt.

“Thanks,” the guitarist bites out, staring at the dark smear across the worn cotton.

“You’re welcome.” As clean as he’s able to make himself with so little at his disposal, Roger rises to shove the pleats of his skirt up, and his nylons down. He takes his briefs with them and his cock springs free. It’s ridiculous, watching it peek out from under the bunched black folds. More than anything, Brian wonders how Roger hasn’t passed out from having it constricted so. He can’t think of a single other situation in which the drummer has shown nearly this much patience.

Roger, with all his varied experiences, has no trouble ripping open the foil package with his teeth, and rolling the condom on as he lifts his skirt further out of the way. He uses another handful of lube to coat the latex generously, like Brian is used to doing on himself, normally. He doesn’t fully realize what stage they’re at until Roger’s hiking his legs higher, and around his waist, his torso is dipping into the couch cushions.

“Ready, Bri?” Roger prods, just this side of breathless from excitement. His voice isn’t the only thing prodding, though, when Brian becomes painfully aware of the hard heat bumping against the curve of his ass.

“Wait-!” the sound bleats past his lips, and warmth colors his cheeks as Roger full-on freezes. Brian feels like a goddamn bride on her wedding night. Maybe better, all things considered, the groom who never knew his bride had such a devious streak. It takes locking up his elbows not to smack his hands over his eyes.

Roger doesn’t edge forward anymore. He waits, just like Brian asked (yelped, more like it). He could probably just say  _ stop _ , and it would be fine, just because they’d gotten this far, safe-word be damned. Brian knows Roger isn’t as nefarious as he likes to convince himself that he is.

But Brian  _ does  _ need something else to focus on, otherwise he’ll never make it through. He blinks, looking around, thinking he might be able to hone on something on the set or soundstage. But he keeps coming back to Roger, front and center. Looking serene, though Brian can’t decide if the impatience twitching in his brow and pink mouth is real or imagined.

“Can you kiss me?” he finally asks in a quiet voice, forcing the air required to phrase the question from his lungs.

Brian takes some satisfaction in dumbfounding Roger, as his blue eyes go wide, mascara lashes fanning, and his mouth small. As if that sort of affection is so alien to them, Brian wonders about taking it back and devoting his attention to something else.

But then Roger bows over him, crushing their mouths together for the third time, and Brian lets the wet heat and thrumming energy overwhelm him. Jutting forward, he licks up into the sweet tinge of Roger’s mouth, driving his attention into the antsy slide of their lips.

Even with all that stimulus against his face, between his hands when he reaches up to clutch either side of Roger’s jaw, there’s no missing the pressure on his backside as Roger drives between his knees. It’s mounting and insistent and Brian can’t help but still, eyes screwed shut and shoulders tight, as Roger presses upon his twitching asshole.

“Easy,” Roger murmurs once more, against his mouth, to which Brian can only nod, and try to relax all over again. He feels Roger’s hips and legs shift against his thighs, and he’s pushing forward again,  pushing, pushing until Brian’s limbs are quivering, and the head of his cock slips in like there’s nothing to it. 

It’s barely in but Brian is already beside himself (as if he wasn’t already). Luckily Roger kisses him harder, deeper, shuddering a quiet groan into his mouth. It’s enough that Brian reciprocates, desperate for the ebb and flow of their mouths as his mind buzzes dimly. Even then, his fingers tighten the further forward Roger thrusts.

It’s just gradual enough (and he’s surprised that Roger has the capacity to keep from jumping the gun), that the fervent kiss distracts him from the initial burn of his walls, even if his attention is stolen every moment or so. The synthetic hair of Roger’s wig tickles his throat and cheeks, and his thumbs brush the not-quite clean shaven line of his jaw. All that tactile stimulus is enough to get Brian out of his own head, until Roger’s pelvis is just about flush with his own.

And then Roger thrusts, and it’s like Brian forgets what to do with his whole body. He’s got enough traction against the couch in his penny loafers for a slow, languid snap of his hips that has Brian’s back arching in a way he’s not used to. The nearly restrained moan that tumbles past his lips is caught between warring sensations, and Roger swallows it with an enveloping kiss and another shallow thrust, even as Brian’s mouth grows slack and useless.

“Okay?” Roger rasps in a hushed tone, pulling back enough to have Brian’s hands falling away. He’s afraid for a moment that he’ll lose the cool he’s been working so hard to achieve - but Roger’s eyes occupy his attention, dark and dusky under shadow and lust. His mouth is red (still shiny), as well as his cheeks. It’s a familiar sight to be sure, but the wig and makeup just sets it off, and Brian feels his already straining cock twinge in a way he’s not entirely used to. With his hands curling around Brian’s sides, Roger thrusts forward with a little more force, enough to have Brian inhaling sharply, his head cast back. But it’s not that bad. Not bad like he thought it was going to be, anyway, though his body is still getting used to it.

Part of him, however, is starting to wonder what he had been afraid of all this time.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters, straightening enough to look at Roger again, grappling for some sense of resolve. “You can keep going.”

Roger does just that. He drives his hips forward, his cock into Brian, and settles back. Then does it again, and again, at no dire pace. He works up a rhythm that has Brian trembling with each forward motion, gasping, close to writhing as his hands grip the cushions. He can barely see the convergence between his thighs with Roger’s skirt in the way, but wonders if he’d even want to. Besides, it might distract from the image of Roger with his frazzled locks, bouncing with every thrust, his eyes lidded and expression a lewd sort of delighted. It was a wonder of the universe that his wig was still on.

“Fuck, Bri, this feels better than I imagined,” he sighs. Brian doesn’t know whether, or even  _ how  _ to respond (which might have been indication that the feeling was rising toward mutual). Any attempt to reply is thwarted as Roger’s hand closes around Brian’s purpling dick, and the first stroke up sends him reeling into space.

“Roger-!” Apparently he isn’t completely incapable of answering, but that’s all he can manage, and a breathy, almost disbelieving moan pulls from his lips. There’s not much room for him to move, with his ankles hooked into the dimples of Roger’s back, but Brian feels his hips buck into the vise around his prick as much as they’re able, his elbows a tense anchor against the couch. 

Roger’s picking up his pace, and Brian’s too overwhelmed to work himself up about it. The quickening rock of hips, the slap of skin on skin, is enough to have him shivering with warm, heady sensations that pulse from his abdomen and wash over his whole body. So much so that Brian’s normally overly-analytical mind is off in some other universe so he can own this moment and just  _ feel _ . 

It’s the same building, brisk rhythm until something changes. Roger lays in a thick thrust, different from others, that has Brian’s whole body rock with a pleasure he’s never felt before. Roger must have noticed the change, because he stills - much to Brian’s apparent dismay.

“What was that?” he demands, nearly choking on his own spit.

“I dunno, you felt it not me!” Roger retorts. “Did it hurt?”

Brian shakes his head so that his hair shifts every which way. Roger’s eyes flash wide and a breathless chuckle falls out of him, pulling his lips into a smile.

“You didn’t tell me you had a G-spot, Brian.”

“Fuck off, Rog.”

“Oh relax, I’m just kidding.”

“Then shut up and keep going!”

Roger does as he’s told (which if they’re having sex, is either much better or much worse than his penchant for following orders in real life). He picks up just as he left off, just as quick, and though Brian doesn’t quite feel the same wracking sensation he did seconds ago, it’s no surprise at this point that he’s fallen far down the rabbit hole, and is not inclined to climb back up. With Roger’s hand sliding up and down his aching shaft all the while, there’s really no way to rationalize his way out of enjoying this one.

Roger manages to find that evasive button a time or two more, sending Brian spiralling each instance, before his inevitable collapse. Part of him is surprised he lasts as long as he does, and the other is astounded Roger outlasts him. Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that Brian comes across Roger’s hand in hard, white stripes, setting his entire body to quivering as he spends himself - all due to stimulus he never thought he’d want in the first place.

Roger follows close behind while stars are still floating in the guitarist’s vision, climaxing on a deep push before hypersensitivity can make it agony for Brian, and a mix of guttural moans and shallow breaths permeate the soundstage. His whole body is heavy and tense, and he feels that if he tried to raise his arm, the whole thing would flop to the side as if his bones were gelatin.

Roger extricates himself, sheening with sweat, costume rumpled. The sight of him in his wig post-orgasm isn’t quite enough to stir Brian’s cock, but he takes notice all the same. Even with exhaustion beginning to set in, there is a particular sort of affection behind his eyes. The kind that comes on very strong in the seconds after his own climax, but only rears its head every once in a while when he’s of right mind.

“That wasn’t so bad,” he admits after a moment, as if he had not been writhing and groaning like he was in the business of sex just moments ago.

A lazy, proud smile stretches across Roger’s face, and he knocks his palm against Brian’s knee. “I knew you’d like it. Anyone with that long of a stick up there ass has to enjoy getting dicked down every once in a while.”

Brian rolls his eyes, but any further remark is smothered, as Roger crowds over him to plant one more solid kiss on his lips. Brian hesitates, only to lift his hand to clutch blond hair - forgetting (and lamenting, if he so chooses to be honest with himself) they’re not the short, ashy waves he’s so used to.

“Do you think you’d ever in your entire life like to try it again?” Roger asks, lacing his soiled fingers together on Brian’s clavicle. He looks particularly pleasant and affectionate himself.

“Maybe.” It’s as close to  _ yes _ as Brian is willing to come, even after all the lewd things he’s let Roger in on just moments ago. “You’ll have to catch me in the right mood.”

“In that case, I’ll have to ask to keep the wig and skirt.”

“Please don’t.”

Eventually, Roger settles back and they untangle their limbs. Now, after all is said and done, Brian is sore in more places than he’s ever been sore before, and can’t imagine what it will be like to wake up tomorrow morning. As he’s buttoning his trousers up, pulling gingerly at the now two stains on his shirt, he notices Roger root around in the couch cushions again. He pulls out a crushed pack of Marlboros, as well as a matchbook from his shirt pocket.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Brian warns heavily, watching Roger strike a match and light his cigarette like the naughty girl he’s turned out to be.

“Relax. I convinced you to take it up the ass, I’ve earned this.” Roger nods smugly, puts the stick to his lips, and takes a long, generous drag. When he exhales, he’s all smiles, as the smoke curls around his face. Brian stands, legs wobbling still, to leave before the smell can hit him - and for one other reason.

It only takes a moment to trigger the sprinklers, and Roger’s incredulous shout rings through the building. Brian keeps an indulgent smile to himself, and sets off to find somewhere to clean himself up.


End file.
